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To Do What You Can't (story)
”June 21st, 1992 Dearest Liz! I have to tell you about this madness I’ve been through. Do you remember my journey back to Africa? Well, I went out hunting again and got lucky! A big lion – a male – don’t worry, it did not suffer (I remember you have a rather weak heart for animals, etc.). It died almost immediately. But can you imagine – some of those darn harmans – they wanted me arrested for poaching! Have you ever heard of such bad manners before? An old lady like me! That is settled now anyway. I am back in England (again) and the lion looks darn good in the living room! I made sure to have it skinned and properly prepared before I left the country. You simply have to come and look at it dear. The weather in Africa was wonderful – exactly like I remember it from the days of my youth. I have already said it far too many times, it is too cold in England! I’m telling you, if it wasn’t for Arthur I would never have moved here in the first place. Speaking of Arthur, he is dead. A hunting accident. The old fool was killed by a leopard. Something must have been wrong with his gun. Most likely he hadn’t cleaned it properly. He died almost instantly. I killed the leopard as well by the way. Had it skinned at the same time as the lion. It is a marvellous skin – I am sure you will love it. The funeral is this Sunday, come if you feel for it (I will make sure there is plenty of sherry in honour of Arthur). After the funeral you can follow to my apartment. We’ll take a glass or two and talk of old times and all of that. By the by, I’ve taken up knitting again. I’m a bit slow in the start, but it should work out just fine. Before it slips my mind, if you try to talk me into buying some new furniture one more time I will make sure you regret it! They have worn well for over twenty years, you can’t expect that from modern garbage! Now that Arthur is gone, would you like to join me for the next hunt? You would surely love Africa and you can borrow one of my guns. With best regards Harriet Tachyon P.S. I’m sending a photo with the letter. The lion is on the floor, and I’m holding the leopard. Have had my hair done (can you tell). Not too shabby for an old lady I’d like to say! ’Liz’ read the letter once more to be sure, before she ventured to the wardrobe to find her old trunk. Harriet was back in England – and obviously completely out of her mind. Dear God, she wrote that Arthur was dead! To leave the country felt like a natural choice, an act of pure self-preservation. Arthur, the short, somewhat thin man that all these years she had seen standing exactly one step beside and one step behind his wife. What kind of woman announces the death of that kind of man with such a nonchalance? With her withered hands deeply buried in an old drawer filled with stockings she reconsidered. If she is out of her mind, then maybe she meant that Arthur had merely been injured. That’s it! She is old after all – they were both old actually. Harriet was already past her sixties, Elizabeth (she really did prefer her full name) was a few years older. If it wasn’t for the funeral. No, not even Harriet would start a funeral without a corpse… oh Dear God, the woman was truly mad! Unless it’s not Liz herself that is confused of course. In comparing the two it would actually be preferable, then she had only misunderstood the letter. A prank played on her by age and nothing else. Hoping that the few irritating sentences would now be gone, she read the letter a third time. No, they were still there. Every word, written with exact, steady and simple handwriting. No swirling ornaments to confuse the eye. She read it a fourth time.'' “would you like to join me for the next hunt? .. and you can borrow one of my guns.” Slow but sure a new thought entered the mind of the woman and she put the letter down with shaking hands. Arthur was dead. In a hunting accident. And she was next in line. She turned around that very moment and started to pack her trunk again. Where in the world would she go safe from a mad woman? Somewhere where neither weapons nor prey was accessible! Asia was out of the question, as was South America. The latter had a rainforest containing both Indians and a vulnerable ecosystem, and the former had tigers and pandas and who-knows-what. And Harriet ''loved vulnerable things. She decorated her living room with them. North America would kill her without the help of Harriet. Africa would be impossible, in Harriet’s own backyard she would be an easy prey, no doubt. Had she not told Elizabeth far too many times how she used to go hunting on the savannah as a young girl? Europe then. Switzerland was known for good locks, but surely she had heard someone speak of some kind of special army training there? The rumor was enough to deter, it would be just like that woman to have an acquaintance there. Harriet and weapons went hand in hand, or rather, trigger in hand. Russia? No, she had once heard Harriet say she used to hunt her furred hats there… The thought of hats came simultaneously as she put the old bible in a pocket in the trunk’s lining, of course she could hide in the Vatican City! It must have been the Swiss Guard she had been thinking of before! She had read in a novel somewhere that women weren’t allowed in the city itself... well be it so, she could just disguise herself somehow and hide in a chapel! Full of new confidence she started to search for her husbands old clothes. She wasn’t sure if Jonathan would have appreciated that his widow walked around on holy ground dressed in his jacket – but he had really no say in that matter or any other for the past five years. When she didn’t’t find them in the bedroom closet she recalled that she had asked her eldest daughter to hide them away where she didn’t’t have to see them all the time. After some additional rummaging around, she found the desired items in the hallway closet. The cardboard boxes were naturally placed among other cardboard boxes, containing old knick-knacks, old books she had read too many times (but still couldn’t’t part from) and seasonal decorations. The trunk was now full and she had started filling the lighter luggage with lotions, crèmes and toothpaste when the bomb hit her. Harriet was mad. The Pope is the only one of his kind in the world. The Pope lives in the Vatican City. Of course Harriet would come there sooner or later to shoot the Pope! Suddenly losing all her strength Elizabeth sank down on her bed. It was no use. Harriet Tachyon had the endless luck of a maniac, and always found her prey. Had she perhaps ever returned from a hunt empty-handed? Never, not even once during the thirty years the women had known each other. She had done something with Arthur’s gun. And in the very same letter were she invited her to the poor man’s funeral, she wanted to take Elizabeth to the next hunt. Should she call the police? Against Harriet? Silly thought, no logic in the world could save her now. She put her luggage away, without caring for unpacking them. Perhaps she couldn’t run, but no matter what kind of lawless country Harriet would drag her to she would surely need at least one spare set of clothes to change into. She would – in this very order – take out the black dress she had worn on her husband’s funeral, write down her will, complete the genealogy she had started on nearly ten years ago and then have her hair done. After that she would at least be materially ready to meet her maker. And once and for all end all myths concerning tunnels of light and gender confused angels. ---- Exactly one week after the date on the letter, Sunday the 28th of June, Elizabeth Weatherby arrived to the church she had been directed to after some minor circumstances. She couldn’t bear calling Harriet, but had asked among the friends they had in common. Out of an old house a little on the side – where she later found out that the reception would be held – stormed Harriet herself, dressed in some black summer dress with a covering layer of a thin material, bobbinet perhaps. Under the dress she wore a very wide, tiger striped, petticoat that was well over an inch longer than the skirt of the dress. “Liz! Not a moment to early! Come in – I’ll show you some more photos before the ceremony, and afterwards we’ll discuss the next hunt! You will never believe what I have to tell you.” There was something truly wondrous about Harriet Tachyon’s voice. If she had not been convinced that the end was near, Elizabeth would have liked to write a disquisition on the topic. One could hear the exclamation marks in the end of almost every sentence, without the woman ever rising her voice. She had experienced a similar phenomenon among successful teachers. “Harriet, I am so sorry for your lo-“ “Sorry to and sorry fro – that won’t help anyone” she waved her hand as if after a fly. “What I need is your help, your assistance, during the most bewildering adventure. You have never experienced a real adventure before I suppose?” Somewhat taken by the stream of words Elizabeth stepped back. “I have been on charter tour to Spa-“ “That doesn’t count! Not by far. Oh well, you worked on the university before, did you not?” “Yes but-” “And you can handle a camera?” “Yes but what-“ “Deal!” With these words Harriet literally turned on her heels and entered the church with enough velocity to make the tiger striped petticoat flutter around her anklets. Elizabeth was left on the threshold with an indeterminable feeling in the pit of her stomach. Well, better there than in her throat – but Harriet’s behaviour was still a mystery. As usual. When a group in mourning approached her she composed herself enough to walk into the church so that she wouldn’t stand in their way. Through the whole ceremony, the reception (that was more like a party, due to a greater number of bottles of Arthur favourite drink - sherry) and the lowering of the coffin into the merciless earth; Elizabeth still couldn’t really gather herself together. The recently widowed barely shifted her face during the ceremony, but toasted and talked cheerfully – and slightly balmy – during the serving of the sherry bottles. Elizabeth knew that Harriet and Arthur had a son and grandchildren, but had only seen the boy (a grown man by now) once or twice many, many years ago. If the family attended to the funeral they seemed to keep a distance from the not-so-mourning. Before Elizabeth managed to escape the graveyard area, Harriet snatched her and dragged her into the premises that had been used for the reception. With stern voice and persistent waving with her hands she shooed out the staff that had been busy cleaning. “Sit down!” Elizabeth sat down. ”Arthur did not die of an accident.” “You said what?” “You heard. I need your help. I need someone that can enter in the minutes. Diaries and such. And a camera – all of that was Arthur's role before by the way. We shall hunt murderers!” “''What''?!” “Listen now, someone tampered with Arthur's gun. I don’t know who, or what – but I need educated and reliable people to sort this out. First of all we’re going down to Africa again. Don’t worry about tickets, I know were that can be procured.” “Yes, on a tourist ag-“ “I told you this was not a charter trip! Nonono, I can provide us with better than that. Were was I now? That’s right – we will re-trace in the footsteps Arthur and I made last time. Somewhere on the way we will find our murderer! You will do the paperwork and I will shoot him!” “But how can you know that-“ “Oh well, it could be a woman in the name of equality – but admit it sounds a tad far-fetched.” “But you can’t sho-“ “Who else would? The police? They have their hands full with arresting hunters to the right and to the left! Speaking of which, I think we should shoot some cops while we still-“ “Harriet!” “Can’t you hear that I am joking, woman? Go home and pack you bags – we will leave in a week!” ---- Harriet kept her word, spare one day. Saturday July 4th, Elizabeth sat in a small room equipped with draperies of mosquito nets. The hotel (she was fairly sure it was a hotel) must be the most ramshackle building she had ever seen inhabited, but the owner seemed to know Harriet well. Despite the late hour of their arrival Harriet had gotten the “usual room” and was prescribed “something to hunt the years away” from a man that obviously had no experience of the life after thirty. After taking notice that the tea wasn’t really to rely on (she had never before seen tea with a rainbow-shimmering surface) Elizabeth had entered her room, changed into nightclothes, put her trunk and bags in a corner and seated herself to watch the mattress. She wasn’t completely convinced, but she was sure she had seen it move by it’s own life (or more likely, lives) from time to time. Suddenly she stirred, and noted that she had been sleeping sitting in the chair, and according to the clock for a good while as well. Outside the door she heard a vague tinkling, and a yellowish light found it’s way under the generous door chink. Without clearly knowing why she tiptoed out in her dressing-gown. In a small recess in the wall someone had fitted in two lugged couches and a small rickety table. In one of the couches sat Harriet, her grey hair haphazardly tied up with a faded shawl, sipping on a glass of sherry. An almost empty bottle on the table hinted that she had been there for a while. She could of course have found the bottle already half-empty and said “Oh, but of course I’ll help you get rid of this!” but her face was a little too ruddy to make it likely. “Harriet, do you feel all right?” The woman gave her a grumpy, but tired sight. “No.” She poured some sherry in a new glass. “Take some. It should help you sleep. Has always worked before.” She splashed her own nightcap a little before downing it. “Harriet… maybe you shouldn’t-“ “You know, that nightdress really looks ridiculous.” Elizabeth nearly said that curtains with a pattern of large brown flowers on orange background hardly was the latest fashion either, but stayed silent. It was naturally impossible to enjoy near a person such as Harriet (unless you were selling various weapons). But it was in some incomprehensible way sort of calming around the late hours. “Well, it was not altogether easy to find one with pale pink frills.” “That isn’t pale pink, it’s-“ “In any case, Harriet, shouldn’t we go to bed soon?” She sipped a little on the sherry, after a vain attempt to ascertain if the glass was clean. At least the alcohol would work as antiseptic. Harriet stared on her own, now empty, glassware for a while, before filling it again. “Haven’t been able to sleep properly for a while now. Completely useless.” Now she stared at a full glass, as if she saw something floating around in there that was invisible to the rest of the world. “Arthur was really fond of sherry. Can’t grasp what I saw in that man. I mean, he was so… English. In a very annoying way. And held his gun wrong. Nearly drove me mad.” Finally something happened that Elizabeth could somewhat connect to. Age related twaddle. Had she not herself thought back on the past years when Jonathan had died? Everything was just a bit backwards because Arthur had died so… unexpectedly. “You know, he used to sit somewhere nearby and read a book. Or write one. Or he lost his pen in the grass so that we stumbled over him.” No, Elizabeth actually didn’t know, but listened to Harriet’s story all the same. “I can’t figure out what he had to do in Africa from the beginning. Something about a project. I didn’t understand a wit of it – and I don’t think he understood it either. But I liked him!” During normal circumstances Elizabeth would have hinted that “like” might not be the right word for someone one had been married to for… forty years? But this was Harriet. You had to read between the blinds. The woman she had always believed to be stronger than solid rock now sat slouchy in a decrepit couch, dressed in her bloomy nightdress and looking unusually human. Here and there grey hair poked out under the shawl. The hand that held the glass was wrinkled and sunburnt, but shaking. Other than the sunburn and the roses painted by the drink she was also unusually pale, and her eyes stared absently on a place just next to Elizabeth, through the glass of sherry. This story has also been posted on *critiquecircle.com *fictionpress.com Category:Stories Category:WIP Category:All Pages Category:World 12 Category:Needs a picture